by Gill Hornby
Lynn and Pat chose not to leave their seats during the break; they had evolved a system whereby others brought drinks and snacks to them. Bennett, lodged between them, unclaimed by Annie, still clutching his case, stayed put. He didn’t seem to know what to do with himself or where to look, but more often than not, he seemed to look over at Tracey.
‘I know who you are,’ said Pat, leaning in to him. That made him jump. She got out her crocheting. ‘I taught your children to swim.’ He relaxed a bit. ‘How are they getting on, then?’
‘Um, well, their crawl’s pretty good, I think.’ Bennett’s voice was surprisingly rich, coming as it did from such an anaemic exterior. ‘Butterfly less so. I don’t know if that fits in with your assessment.’
‘Oo-er,’ said Pat. It obviously wasn’t quite the answer she’d expected. ‘Let me… It’s a while ago now…’
Lynn gave him a long look over her Argos catalogue. ‘I don’t think she gives much of a stuff about their swimming any more, love. I think it was more of a general polite enquiry.’
‘Yes, of course.’ He twisted in his chair. ‘Well, Casper is an estate agent, and…’
It would be hard to judge whether Jazzy would have anything to do with Katie in any other social situation. Jasmine was famously one of Bridgeford’s scarier teens–very much of the ‘Yeah? Like, hello? What the fuck you staring at?’ school of social intercourse–and it had been a long time since anyone of her own age had made any attempt to have anything to do with her. But, either because she was getting that little bit older or because there in the Coronation Hall they were such a tiny minority, the two girls had instantly bonded. They were both bent over phones, sharing pictures of cats; Jazzy leaned in to the wheelchair as they giggled together.
‘Long time since I’ve seen her like this,’ muttered Lewis. The muscles in his cheek twitched with something too emotional to be a smile.
‘Sweet,’ agreed Tracey, looking at him sideways. ‘Has she got plenty of mates her own age?’
‘It’s not easy.’ He spilled some tea and dabbed at his denim shirt. ‘Do you know that guy over there, by the way?’ He nodded towards Bennett.
‘Nope. I do wish people would stop asking me that. I don’t know people, all right? Jeez.’ Tracey collected a few tea things. ‘Why?’
‘Certainly knows you. Or you’ve got yourself an admirer.’
Tracey looked over sharply, and then Judith was clapping her hands and calling everyone back to the circle. It was time for introductions. All the regular members were to take it in turns to stand, give their own names and introduce their guests to the group. Judith began, but with an apology: she had hoped her boyfriend might come along but sadly, at the last minute, he couldn’t find the time.
‘Well, it is hard, isn’t it, finding time,’ Pat stage-whispered to her crochet needle, ‘when you’re a figment of the imagination.’
‘Fantasist,’ mouthed Lynn, shaking her head and tapping her temple. ‘Total bloody fantasist.’
Lewis jumped up and went through his lot from the council. There was a good bit of banter at this point: basses always like a bit of banter; they like jokes by other basses and they like a bit of banter.
And then it was Annie’s turn.
‘Hello, everybody. I’m Annie Miller. I’ve been in this choir–gosh–for most of my adult life, I think, and this is my guest, Bennett St John Parker.’
‘Ooh-ooh-ooh,’ sang everyone in unison, as if it was a quiz show and Bennett the jackpot. ‘Good evening, Bennett St John Parker.’
Bennett hugged his music case in close. ‘Actually, it’s just Parker. I don’t really use the St John.’ He pronounced it ‘Sinjun’. ‘And just Bennett is fine.’ Annie grimaced and mouthed a ‘Sorry’ across the circle, but his gaze slid down and away and the next member took the floor.
‘My name is Maria, as in—’
‘No. Don’t. Please.’ Pat held up her hand in the stop sign.
‘—I just met a girl called—’
‘Every. Single. Time.’ Lynn shook her head.
‘And this is my new recruit, Jazzy. I know Jazzy because I’m one of the carers for her lovely nan, aren’t I, Jazz?’
The girl with the phone flicked back her voluminous hair, looked up and blinked a thick black fringe of false eyelashes. Clearly her expectations of the evening had been a little unrealistic: her makeup was more O2 main stage than Bridgeford circle of trust.
‘Hi, Jazzy,’ chorused everybody.
‘Yeah,’ Jazzy frowned. ‘But, hi, um, listen. What is that, “recruit”? Is it, like, someone who only ever has to come here like once?’
‘Hah. The opposite, love. They’ve got you now. I was only a bit older than you when I got roped in,’ cackled Pat.
There was a hoot from Lynn. ‘That’ll be you, Jazzy–sitting there crocheting your blanket, specs on the end of your nose.’
‘OH. MY. GOD-uh,’ groaned Jazzy, flinging herself back against the chair and making like a corpse.
‘Anyway,’ cut in Lewis, ‘on to the second half. Does anyone have any requests or suggestions?’
‘I think Bennett St John Parker might,’ said Lynn. She seemed rather taken with Bennett St John Parker. ‘He’s brought his music.’
‘No, no, it’s fine.’ His complexion, until then pallid as a vampire, started to pink. ‘I haven’t. Well I have, but it’s not quite suitable. I got the wrong end of the stick.’
‘We do anything round here, Bennett. We are a broad church.’
‘Ha! Oh, yes. A very broad church,’ scowled Lynn. ‘Apart from when it comes to Jesus, that is.’
‘What have you got there?’ Pat took his bag and started pulling out music. ‘Requiem… requiem… miserere… requiem…’
‘Blimey,’ said Lewis. ‘Expecting a massacre?’ He was smiling, but quite clearly put out. Neither Bennett nor Bennett’s music–or his voice or his name or his clothes or, by a short and obvious leap of prejudice, his politics–were Lewis’ cup of tea. Like a pack, the rest of the basses took his side.
‘You want to lighten up a bit, Bennett Sinjun Doo-da.’
‘What can we all sing to give our friend here the strength he needs to carry on?’
‘I know.’ Annie tried to broker a peace. ‘Let’s do our Eurovision medley. Everyone likes a bit of Eurovision, don’t they?’
‘Oh, I shouldn’t think so. Europe? I can’t imagine he’s very fond of your Europe, are you, Benjy? Johnny Foreigner? Pop songs? That’s not your scene, is it, Mr Sinjun?’
‘It’s Bennett.’ He was starting to get tetchy, stuffing papers back into their case as one who was about to leave. ‘And yes, thank you, it just so happens I rather like it.’
‘Then don’t go, not yet,’ pleaded Annie across the circle. ‘Just sing with us for a bit, please?’
He sank back into his chair. The basses calmed down, Judith handed out the lyric sheets, Mrs Coles fiddled with her music and they began.
Con-grat-u-lations…
Bennett was quite visibly crushed. He was still an unearthly pale colour, still clutching his case, still rigid in his formal suit, yet from somewhere deep within his cadaverous frame came the most extraordinary sound.
‘Oh my goodness, as I live and breathe,’ said Pat, too overcome to actually sing.
Lynn was fanning herself with her lyrics and gazing at Bennett with awe. ‘Oh my God,’ she gasped. ‘Oh. My. God.’
‘We’ve actually got one. At last, we’ve got—’
‘—a tenor!’ panted Lynn. ‘I thought it would never happen.’ She touched his leg, to convince herself. ‘Our very own church-trained tenor.’
Somehow, Bennett was not put off. He looked nervously at the hand on his thigh, but his voice remained strong and pure and dominant. When they came to the final cheerful chorus of ‘Making Your Mind Up’, the cheers and applause were all for Bennett.
As everyone got up, scraped their chairs, gathered their belongings, Lewis shouted out the notices: the countdown to the Coun
ty Championships in May; the Talent Show coming up on the twenty-eighth of February. Annie needed help with the Evergreens’ lunch on Wednesday… But nobody really listened. The door was open and they were drifting out into the night.
‘That was brilliant. Night, all.’
‘See you next week. Can’t wait.’
The rain had stopped. Spirits were high. So high that nobody noticed that Tracey was not walking out with them. Indeed, such were the thrills of the journey through the Eurovision hits of the twentieth century, nobody had noticed that Tracey slipped out sometime around 1972.
Annie sat slumped on the pale blue sofa, still wearing her navy mac. It had been a day of dreariness and disappointment and she was thoroughly drained. There was a selection of remote controls lined up on the cushion beside her. She picked up the biggest, pointed it, pressed and hoped for the best; the television screen stayed dark.
For the first time ever, not one mother, carer or child had turned up to her Monday After-Lunch Pre-school Storytime down at the library… She tried another remote. Fifteen years Annie had been running that story slot–and for the ten years before that she had turned up every week as a mother with a pre-schooler–and nearly all of that time it had been a busy, thriving part of the library service. Now it was gone; over; redundant… Ah, there was sound, but no picture. She picked up another. And for that to happen in the wake of Connie’s accident and the crisis with the Choir… Damn: the sound had gone away again and there was still no vision. Oh yes, all those new recruits had been dragged in, but how many of them would last the course? And not a single member had turned out for the sit-in the other night… She prodded a few other buttons–Channels, Menu, Play. Interactive? What did that mean? She didn’t want to interact. She wanted to be passive just for once in her life. Was that never to be allowed? Would she never be able to sit there, slack-jawed, while someone else did the work? It felt, sometimes, like the end of days.
Perhaps she was supposed to press two buttons at once, was that the answer? She reached for her mobile and dialled James’s number. She’d never hear the last of it, but still. That was odd… No answer. Where was he, then? She was sure he had said he was at the flat tonight… Well, it couldn’t be all the remotes in one go, could it? She was sure she would have noticed if the others held four whole things up every time. It certainly seemed to be the end of Bridgeford… She started smacking the controls with the flat of her hand, trying to get all the buttons all at once. Or at least the end of Bridgeford as she knew it… ‘AAAARGH.’ She hurled the remotes at the wall. ‘HOW THE BLOODY, BLOODY HELL DO YOU PUT THE BLOODY TELLY ON?’ Her cry rang around the empty house. She fell back, exhausted. Perhaps it was actually the end of the world.
Annie shook her head, stood up and scratched out that thought. Apparently, she had to stop being a drama queen. Jess had been home again at the weekend and impressed a number of facts upon her mother, loud and clear–so loud and clear that she was sure the neighbours could hear it all, that Pamela two doors down was probably taking notes–and the ones that stuck most vividly in Annie’s mind were: 1. Jess had a tattoo saying B.I.T.C.H. on her ankle and that was cool. 2. Annie was a drama queen. 3. Jess did not know the difference between a stupid word and a stupid acronym. 4. Annie was annoying.
She took her coat off, hung it up and went through to the kitchen, rubbing at the tears and feeling aggrieved all over again. She still hadn’t recovered from her night out serving soup for hours on her own in sub-zero temperatures, and her resistance was understandably low. The thing was, if a person announces she’s going to drop a bombshell and then drops it, then the other person in the conversation–the one in whose face the bombshell has just exploded–was almost entitled to get hurt. And cry, yes–why not? She wasn’t going to apologise. That was, to be fair, the whole point of the bombshell, wasn’t it: impact? You can’t lob a grenade and then just roll your eyes and mutter, ‘Drama queen’ at anyone unfortunate enough to lose a limb. She opened a few cupboards and banged them shut again. She couldn’t think of what to eat. She had hit a crisis with food, as well as everything else. It was the end of days, the end of Bridgeford, the end of the world and, on top of it all, it was the end of dinner.
After all those years of what felt like feeding the five thousand every night, she simply did not know how to even begin to go about feeding just herself and James. The two of them, for so long the least important members of the household (in Annie’s view), didn’t seem deserving of actual cooking of proper meals. Back in September, when Jessica–the youngest and last to desert them–went off to college, she had decided that that was it for weekday dinners: the kitchen was closed. She could do a kilo of pasta, or she could do no pasta at all; a shepherd’s pie as long as a cricket pitch, or nothing whatsoever. James had argued at first, said he would do it all from now on. There had been a bit of a row about it, in fact–was Annie being a drama queen then? No, she didn’t think so–before he saw her point of view. And as it turned out, he’d had to stay in London a lot since then, on this tiresome, tricky case, so Annie was on her own more often than not anyway.
She wandered over to the shelf of cookery books and stroked along the row of cracked spines. Annie loved her cookery books. If this, their bashed-about, well-loved family home of thirty years, were to go up in flames, she would make straight for the—Or, actually, would she? All the family photo albums going back over a century were in the sitting room, after all. And the little mementoes of the girls as babies–curls, teeth, lawn linen smocks–were tucked away for safe-keeping upstairs. Then there was the doll’s house: she couldn’t possibly lose the doll’s house. It had been handed down, from her granny to her mother to herself to her girls, and if her own little granddaughters–not as yet conceived but still the focus of constant, whirring, low-level mental preparation–if they did not get to play with that doll’s house then Annie’s heart might actually break. But could she even manage to carry that through the flames? A firefighter probably could; definitely two. OK, here was the plan: send the crew straight to the landing for the doll’s house, perhaps dive into the sitting room on the way back through, so leaving Annie free to rescue the cookery books…
Because, of course, these were heirlooms too.
Her finger stopped at Marguerite Patten’s Pressure Cookery. She plucked it out: ‘First published 1949’. That was a fascinating social record, right there, of British attitudes to domestic cooking of the twentieth century. Annie never used a pressure cooker these days–technology had moved on and her memories of childhood meals made in one were not fond–but for her mum it had been a life-saver. Annie knew–she had heard it all often enough–about her mother’s earlier years, working in a lab–the only woman who went past Reception–living in a bedsit, putting on a cheap one-pot meal when she left in the morning that she could eat alone as she pored over her work at night. The book fell open in her hands: ‘Creamed Tripe and Onions’, obviously a favourite because of the splashes on the page. It wasn’t just a social record either: this was her mother’s own personal history. She traced the stain on the page with her finger and felt a shiver of connection: that wasn’t just any old splash, it had been splashed there by a brave, determined, trail-blazing, post-war proto-feminist; that was no bog-standard tripe juice–it was the tripe juice of her darling, much-missed mum.
And here was the bulging file of hand-written notes that her mother had collected throughout her life, including the recipes for the simnel cake, which Annie had enjoyed every Easter as a child and made every Easter as an adult, and the delicious Christmas pudding, which she hoped would continue to serve her family for generations to come.
Annie adored and admired her mother. She was proud to be the daughter of one who, in her childhood, was branded–often with derision–a ‘women’s libber’. She was thrilled to be the mother of three daughters herself. She was nowhere near as clever as her own mum, or as wildly talented as her amazing girls, but still she loved to think of them all as a human chain, wi
th Annie in the middle, receiving ideas, and things, from one generation and handing them carefully, tenderly, inspiringly, to the next, onwards and upwards, higher and higher, towards the light of total gender equality. So how bloody come she of all people now had the total embarrassment of this wretched girl with B.I.T.C.H. scrawled all over her in indelible bloody ink?
The phone rang. That was bound to be Sue. They hadn’t spoken since Saturday morning–practically a record–and Annie was longing to have a catch-up, but she was not, under any circumstances, going to let on about the tattoo. Absolutely not. They shared everything, had done for decades, but this particular horror must stay in the family. This was one secret Annie would keep till the grave–or at least till the summer and Jess turned up in town with a skirt on. She took a deep breath, steeled herself, picked up the phone and cracked.
‘She got a tattoo!’ It came out as an almost bestial wail.
‘Hello?’ It sounded like a caller from the moon. ‘Am I speaking with Mrs Miller?’
‘Yes, you are.’ That was a relief. And this was a nice young man, she could tell even at that distance. She trotted to the fridge and took out a carton of soup. ‘How can I help you?’
‘My name is Ravi—’
‘Hi, Ravi.’ She fumbled about in the drawer and found her granny’s old pinking shears. ‘Call me Annie.’
‘Well–er–Annie, I was wondering if you were satisfied with your current broadband provider.’
‘Oh, Ravi,’ she laughed. ‘You’ve got the wrong member of the family.’ She snipped the corner off the carton. ‘Don’t ask me. I wish we weren’t provided with any internet at all.’ Ravi, all the way over in wherever he was, was clearly a little stumped. ‘It’s just changed everything, and not for the better. Don’t you agree? The way I see it, there was human progress, going along on a nice straight upward trajectory since–I don’t know–since Georgian times, practically, and then along comes the internet and everything goes off, loopy, completely haywire.’